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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183617">Filio Regis</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite'>vetiverite</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Victorian, Artist Kíli, Choirmaster Fili, Christmas Fluff, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:14:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,336</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183617</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Caroling in Oxford during Yuletide 1875, village choirmaster Filio Regis Weld meets an alluring Irishman who calls forth from him a desire for a more-than-ordinary life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fíli &amp; Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GatheringFiKi - 12 Days Of Christmas 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Filio Regis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note that while not everything in italics is dialogue, but all dialogue is in italics.</p><p><i>Colmcille</i> is a Gaelic given name pronounced Col-M-Keel.  </p><p>Written for FiKiGathering's 12 Days of Christmas 2020 Gathering, based on this photoset:<br/></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <br/></p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>St. Thomas’ Day 1875<br/>
Oxford</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Just this street left, my lads, and then on to Reverend Blasdell’s.  Are you all ready?</em>
</p><p>Fourteen choristers, ages six through twelve and a half, all nodded.</p><p>Mr. F. R. Weld, junior choirmaster of St. Hyglac’s in Beckley Oxford, smiled.  <em>Well, then. “Adeste Fidelis”, if you please.</em></p><p>Caroling in Oxford proper had been Mr. Weld’s idea.  From the start, the outing had been gilded with good fortune.  Mild weather ensured that every voice remained in tune.  Alms boxes that had started off the evening empty now stretched their strings with the weight of shillings and pence.  Once the choral group had completed its rounds, there would be hot cider and mince pies at the home of their sponsor, the Reverend Prebendary H. H. L. Blasdell.  And then home to tell proud parents of the evening’s successes!</p><p><em>With gusto, now, and remember to watch my hand for the tempo,</em> warned Mr. Weld.  <em>One, two, three, FOUR—</em></p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>A-des-te fi-de-lis<br/>
</em> <em>Læ-ti tri-um-phan-tes,<br/>
</em> <em>Ve-ni-te, ve-ni-te in Behhhh-thle—</em></p>
</blockquote><p> The shout came from behind and on high:  <em>WOULD YOU PLEASE CEASE THAT DAMNED INFERNAL RACKET!</em></p><p>Mr. Weld gasped and promptly dropped his handbell.  It bounced across the cobblestones, clanging uproariously.  Several of the children tittered; their chaperone silenced them with a sharp gesture of his hand.  Greatly embarrassed, he stalked over and snatched up the bell – holding it mouth-upwards so as to properly silence its clapper – and peered upward to see what he could see.</p><p>In the attic window of the building across the narrow lane, a man’s silhouette could be faintly made out against dim interior light.  To this figure, Mr. Weld called:  <em>I say, that was unnecessary!</em></p><p>No reply.</p><p><em>Simon!</em> Mr. Weld barked.  <em>Your candle!</em></p><p>The eldest of the boys hurried forward to exchange his lit taper for the bell.</p><p><em>Now then!</em> Mr. Weld wheeled to face their aggressor, barking, <em>Apologize at once to these young people!</em></p><p>The figure had disappeared.</p><p>Much vexed (for though he normally hid it well, he had a bit of a temper), Mr. Weld stamped his foot and commanded, <em>Did you hear me? Come back here!</em></p><p>The front door to the building swung open, and now the entire party gasped.</p><p>Illuminated by the carolers’ candles, a man’s pale face – seemingly bodiless – floated in the darkened doorway.  Black brows, clenched jaw, flaring nostrils— such a face as Mr. Weld had only seen before in the night terrors of his youth.  But he was a boy no longer; he must not quail in fear, especially in front of his charges.</p><p><em>We’ll soon enough be gone; I should think you could suffer one song,</em> he chided the stranger.  <em>St. Thomas’ Day is for caroling, after all— or had you forgot?</em></p><p>In a quiet tone utterly at odds with its fierce appearance, the ghostly-pale face spoke – <em>’Tis done on St. Stephen’s Day where I am from</em> – and then its owner stepped forward.</p><p>As a singer trained nearly from infancy to regulate his breath, Mr. Weld had always been puzzled by the notion of all air being knocked from a body.  Now he knew the feeling.  Viewed in soft golden candlelight, the face that had appeared ghastly in shadow became something altogether different. Ivory-pale skin, sensual red lips, glistening dark eyes, all framed in a nimbus of dark curls.  Mr. Weld’s fingers twitched with the sudden, overwhelming compulsion to touch that skin, to sink and weave themselves into those soft black strands…</p><p><em>Good God,</em> he heard himself whisper.</p><p>As if summoned forth by this exclamation, the man in the doorway took yet another step forward.  He was young – Mr. Weld’s junior by five years or so – and a good half-head taller to boot.  He wore a floor-length redingote forty years out of date, the sort of coat their grandfathers wore when the present Queen still played with dolls.  Soot-black and voluminous, it concealed all from the neck down; this explained why his face had appeared to float.</p><p><em>I beg… I beg your pardon for my discourtesy, </em>he stammered in a faint voice.  By his enraptured expression, it seemed plain that he saw the same thing in Mr. Weld as Mr. Weld had seen in him.</p><p>Recovering himself, the choirmaster adopted a tone of high-handed, teacherly rebuke.  <em>You ought to beg my pupils' pardon as well.  Such language is indefensible with children present.</em></p><p><em>Yes— yes, indeed it was.  I do beg pardon of all of you.</em>  Even though he now spoke quietly, the man’s natural voice was sonorous; it seemed to fill the entire lane.  The soft Ds, hard Rs, and firmly enunciated Ls identified the speaker as a transplanted Irishman, perhaps educated but certainly not born here.</p><p><em>It’s only a terrible headache I have,</em> he continued.  <em>It pains me something tremendous.</em></p><p><em>You shouldn’t have shouted,</em> said Mr. Weld, moved to sympathy but not quite ready to dismount his high horse.  <em>No doubt you did yourself more of an injury.</em></p><p><em>Yes…</em>  Having thus surrendered, the Irishman leaned back against the door jamb, spent and helpless.</p><p>One of the boys – little Quentin Cox; his treble could be mistaken for no others’ – piped, <em>Sir, are we not to sing?</em></p><p>Mr. Weld considered the question for a long moment.  Then he turned and whispered an instruction to his carolers, who all at once blew out their candles. But for the glow of Simon’s taper and the waning moon’s last sliver, the lane was plunged into soothing darkness.</p><p><em>Oh, you needn’t,</em> the Irishman protested, but Mr. Weld had other ideas.  More whispering, and then – so low, only those present in that small part of the lane could hear it – the children began to sing the medieval cantio sacra “Puer Nobis Nascitur”, arranged as a gently winding round.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>Puer nobis nascitur<br/>
</em> <em>Rector angelorum;<br/>
</em> <em>In hoc mundu pascitur<br/>
</em> <em>Dominus dominorum.</em></p>
</blockquote><p>Their audience leant his dark head against the jamb, listening with eyes closed.  Mr. Weld kept one eye on him as he conducted the children.  He half feared the ailing man would fall; even more than that, he feared that were he obliged to tend to him, the impulse to touch his hair would be too great…</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>O et A, et A, et O</em><br/>
<em>um cantibus in choro,</em><br/>
<em>um canticis et organo,<br/>
</em> <em>enedicamus domino.</em></p>
</blockquote><p>The last note barely amounted to a sigh.</p><p><em>That was grand,</em> the Irishman whispered.  <em>Thank you, lads.</em></p><p>Mr. Weld gave Simon back his taper with instructions to relight everyone’s wicks.  As the children formed an inward-facing huddle, the choirmaster approached the stranger’s doorway.</p><p><em>Will you be all right?</em> he asked.</p><p>
  <em>I suppose I will, if I sleep tonight.  Morning will tell.</em>
</p><p><em>May I call on you, to make sure?</em>  Mr. Weld could not quite believe his own nerve.  In the village, everyone knew and visited one another freely.  But with newcomers, one must wait for an invitation.  That was the rule now being broken.  </p><p>The Irishman evidently did not stand on ceremony.  In fact, by his eager tone, he seemed willing to dispense with it altogether.  <em>I will be here at home,</em> he murmured.  <em>Certainly you must come, Mr….?</em></p><p>An embarrassed cough.  <em>Filio Regis Weld, at your service.</em></p><p><em>Filio Regis!</em> In spite of his pain, the man chuckled.  <em>That’s quite a name.  I am called Colmcille.</em></p><p>
  <em>Just Colmcille?  Haven’t you a surname?</em>
</p><p>Swaying slightly, the man offered a crooked grin.  <em>You’ll learn it tomorrow, so you will,</em> he whispered.</p><p>And then he melted like a spectre back into the dark vestibule and gently shut the door.</p><p>_____________</p><p> </p><p>By all accounts, Filio served St. Hyglac’s with distinction.  He assisted senior choirmaster Mr. Francis Knott in all musical matters, particularly the selection and training of the youth chorus.  This very morning they would rehearse the Christmas Eve service, which Filio himself was to conduct.  At his suggestion (and with the permission of Reverend Nichols) they would perform “I Sing the Birth Was Born To-Night” from Chope’s newly-published <em>Carols for Use in Church</em>. Such a daring inclusion would have to be sung perfectly to appease St. Hyglac’s more conservative parishioners.</p><p>The day after caroling, however – for the first time in his life – Filio took no pleasure in song.  He wished to be done so that he could hasten to town, and he found himself more than usually vexed by Adrian Bilford’s persistent failure to hit B flat above high C.</p><p>Back at home at last, he changed his shirt, brushed down his good trousers and coat, and looked over his hats.  He’d worn the top hat last night; the wider-brimmed straw hat was out of season.  He would have to wear the wool cap, which made him look like a schoolboy.  At least his ears would not be crimson from frost.  He wanted to look presentable for his Irishman.</p><p>(Strange that to his unconscious mind, the Irishman was already <em>his</em>.)</p><p>Conveyance from village to town was a matter of begging.  Filio settled for a ride on the back of the brewery wagon.  At least he did not have to perch in back with the barrels— but riding up front with dour Mr. Nigh proved equally a trial.  The brewer was shy and had little to say, and so the four miles from Beckley to Oxford passed rather awkwardly.  Filio was all too glad to jump off early at St. Clement’s with a promise to be standing upon that very spot by half three precisely.</p><p>It took a great deal of walking and a few false turns to find the exact stretch of lane again, but at last he stood before Colmcille’s door.  It bore a most unusual wreath.  Instead of the usual holly, boughs of fresh yew had been bound together, interspersed with leaves of different trees– oak, hazel, ash, none of them in season.  Upon closer inspection, Filio found that they had been cleverly cut from thin sheets of <em>papier-mâché</em> and hand-painted to look real.</p><p>At the center of the wreath shone a bright brass door knocker.  It appeared to have been freshly polished, perhaps even that morning.  Heart leaping, Filio reached out— but before his fingers even touched the rapper, the door was flung open.</p><p><em>You came,</em> said Colmcille.</p><p><em>Of course.</em>  Filio could barely force these words out, so breathless did the sight of the Irishman render him.</p><p>Colmcille looked even more handsome in full daylight— deep hazel eyes shining, hair just as rich and unruly around his fair face.  No blush tinted his cheeks; instead, his lips seemed fuller and redder than last night, as if crying out for a kiss.  He had discarded the redingote, which had hidden the grace of his slender frame.  Like Filio, he wore a regulation wool walking suit – jacket, waistcoat, pants, all dark grey – but with two distinctions.  First, his white shirt had winged rather than flat collars.  Second, his necktie – of daring blue silk figured in brown – was tied in an old-fashioned loose knot instead of a modern four-in-hand.  He looked quaint, artistic, even bohemian— and exciting.</p><p>His eager gaze swept over Fílio once, twice, plainly liking what he saw.  He stepped back and held the door wide.</p><p><em>Come,</em> was all he said.</p><p>No gentleman whose acquaintance Filio had yet made ever behaved so frankly, so forthrightly.  A dance always had to be done— “if I may” and “please do” and “good afternoon”,  a ceremonious exchange of cards and baptismal names only after you had known one another a year.  This man took Filio’s hand and nimbly leapt over it all with one word:  <em>Come.</em></p><p>So Filio did, and so his life began.  Everything before it seemed pale and listless; everything after, rich and glowing.</p><p>_____________</p><p> </p><p>Filio had envisioned the top floor to be a sparse-furnished, gloomy garret where one sat shivering and starving and brooding over one’s ill fate.  But no:  the large, well-lit attic was a riot of color; everywhere the signs of activity, interest, creation.  Sheet-covered canvases here, open books there, and everywhere hanging garlands of the same <em>papier-mâché</em> leaves as festooned the front door.</p><p><em>My word,</em> Filio breathed.</p><p><em>My world,</em> Colmcille replied.</p><p>A tiny stove in the corner dispensed ample heat.  Before it sat a large, comfortable, and only slightly worn blue armchair to which Filio now found himself steered.  Looking around, he spied a large copper bathtub, not even hidden with a curtain.  He instantly thought of Colmcille there, and he felt a jolt of… <em>something</em>.  To feel it was enough; he did not wish to name it.</p><p>Until he laid eyes on the bed.</p><p>Colmcille handed him a tin cup and poured out a measure of some amber-hued liquid from a plain glass bottle.  Poitín <em>from home,</em> he said, then poured the same for himself.  Still gripping the bottle, he produced a cloth-covered plate from a battered sideboard and brought it over to Filio.  <em>Hold this,</em> he instructed, then sat down cross-legged on the floor, folding his long legs beneath him like a fawn in the woods.</p><p><em>But you’ll ruin your suit,</em> objected his guest.</p><p><em>Ah, ‘tis negligible; had it a million years.</em> Colmcille grinned a grin whose beauty and brightness set Filio’s soul aflame like a lit lucifer held to a waiting wick.  He leaned forward and tapped their cups together.</p><p>The amber liquid proved fiery, potent, and wonderfully warming.  Under its calico cover, the plate held a little pyramid of biscuits, sweet and crisp, flavored with ginger and clove.  <em>My landlady’s work,</em> Colmcille explained. <em>I told her I expected a guest.</em>  The softness of his voice supplied the missing adjective:  <em>special.</em></p><p><em>How is your headache?</em> inquired Filio.</p><p><em>Much improved, thanks.</em>  Colmcille spoke around a mouthful of biscuit—a contravention of table etiquette that Filio found quite reasonable, given the lack of a table.  <em>The children’s lovely hymn cured me, though I hardly deserved it.  Have they recovered from the fright I gave them?</em></p><p><em>They have.</em>  Filio took another sip of his <em>poitín</em> and relaxed back into the chair.  <em>I don’t think any of them told their parents.  After all, they’d like to return to Oxford next Yuletide.  As would I,</em> he added.</p><p>Colmcille raised his glass.  <em>I’ll work on my lion’s roar, then.</em></p><p>They fell into a strangely comfortable silence – as if they’d been companions for many a year rather than only a day – and took turns looking at one another.  Each knew exactly what the other was doing, and allowed it.  As Filio’s gaze wandered around the room, he was pleasurably aware all the while that Colmcille was drinking him in.  Then they switched, and Filio was at liberty to look to his heart’s content while Colmcille read the future at the bottom of his cup of <em>poitín.</em> </p><p>When the last biscuit had been eaten, Colmcille topped off their glasses.  <em>Now that we’ve broken bread, tell me, for I can’t help but be curious,</em> he declared.  <em>However did you come by such a grand name as Filio Regis?</em></p><p><em>My father,</em> Filio replied.  <em>He was once vicar of the church which employs me.  He named me after his favorite offertory— Charpentier’s</em> Precatio Pro Filio Regis.  <em>It means ‘prayer for—’</em></p><p><em>The son of the King, </em>Colmcille leapt in.  <em>You are talking to an Irishman.  Latin’s our third language, behind Gaelic and English.</em>  With mischief: <em>I took you for a King’s son last night, you know.  The way you scolded me, I thought my head would end up on a pike.</em></p><p><em>That would scandalize the neighborhood!  But now it’s your turn to tell the tale of your name,</em> Filio reminded him.</p><p><em>Ah— well, then!  As your father was a Latinist, mine’s a Gaelicist.  Peadar Pól Ó Braonáin is his name. For me, he would have preferred </em>Colm <em>only; in our old tongue it means ‘dove’.</em>   Here Filio’s host demurely lowered his eyes, displaying the sweep of his long dark lashes.  <em>My mother, however, thought that adding</em> ‘-cille’ <em>would be more palatable to the priest.  It means ‘church’… into which I never set foot.</em>  His eyes, suddenly piercing, now rose to meet Filio’s.  <em>Does that bother you, Filio?</em></p><p>
  <em>I don’t know.  Are you claiming to be an atheist?</em>
</p><p><em>No.  Not an atheist.</em>  Colmcille was not smiling now.  <em>A pagan.  A traveler on old paths; a lover of old ways.</em></p><p><em>A Druid?</em>  Filio studied his host closely, unsure if he was teasing.  <em>Do you worship trees?</em></p><p><em>I LIVE in one, don’t I?</em>  Colmcille flung his arms out dramatically, paying obeisance to the leaf garlands which encircled every rafter and made an arbor of his attic home.</p><p>Filio burst into delighted laughter.  To his relief Colmcille followed, and there again was that surge of heat within his chest.</p><p><em>I noticed your wreath outside,</em> he ventured.  <em>It is different from everyone else’s.  It’s</em> beautiful.</p><p><em>Thank you.  I made it, and those up there as well.  They represent the sacred trees of Celtic pagandom.</em>    Colmcille set down his cup on the floor and leaned back on his hands, surveying his handiwork. <em>You know,</em> he said slowly.  <em>I’ve a sprig of mistletoe as well.  There is no herb more sacred than that.</em>   He looked back to Filio with eyes plaintive, sweet, but also a mite fearful.  </p><p><em>I’ve been saving it,</em> he said.</p><p>Filio felt he could die on the spot.  Instead he took a deeper draught of <em>poitín</em>, for courage.  <em>It IS the solstice,</em> he mumbled. <em>A highly significant event, I believe.</em></p><p><em>Yes.  It is a special day you’ve come to see me on, Filio Regis Weld, for the light which has been waning for half the year now waxes from this point forward.</em>  Colmcille suddenly sat forward, took up his cup and quaffed it to the dregs.  In a flash, Filio perceived that Colmcille was fully as nervous as he, and that they shared the same hidden, plaintive hope.</p><p><em>In some lands,</em> Colmcille was saying, <em>country folk stay up all night to keep the light alive until dawn.  They lay a fire in the hearth and light candles and such, and nary a flame’s allowed to go out until the sun is seen.</em></p><p><em>I’ve heard of this, yes, </em>said Filio with great care.</p><p><em>I’ve never tried it, but this year I thought I might.</em>  Colmcille ran his fingertip around the edge of his cup fully five times before he spoke again.  <em>Perhaps… if you’re not opposed to it, being a good and upstanding Christian and all… you might keep me company.</em></p><p>Filio bowed his head.  <em>I promised my neighbor that I would meet him at exactly half-three for a ride back to the village.  I gave him my word, and…</em>  He let out a little laugh.  <em>Being a good and upstanding Christian, I must keep it.</em></p><p>Colmcille’s small, nearly inaudible <em>Well then…</em> might have been the end of it.  But like the sun at winter solstice, Filio was not so easily defeated.</p><p><em>I’ve plenty of candles at home, you know,</em> he volunteered, keeping his voice as even as possible.  <em>I’ve a hearth to build a fire in, and wood to keep it burning all night.  And I have…</em> He would have said <em>a spare bed,</em> but he knew in that very moment that it would go unused.</p><p><em>I have plenty of room, </em>he murmured instead, hoping to be understood.</p><p>And he was— if the sudden joy on the Irishman’s face was any indicator.</p><p>_____________</p><p> </p><p><em>Have you everything you need?</em> asked Filio.  <em>We must leave soon if we’re to meet Mr. Nigh on time.</em></p><p><em>Almost ready.</em>  Colmcille had an overnight satchel open on his little bed and was wrapping something in a length of white silk.  Mistletoe, being not only sacred but fragile, must be treated with utmost gentleness for it to survive the long journey to a first kiss.</p><p>Pulling on his black redingote, he turned; as his eyes alighted on his companion, his lips once more seemed to become redder, softer, anticipating his fate.  <em>Filio…</em> he said.</p><p><em>Colmcille-io,</em> his companion teased.  <em>Or just Kili-O– to match mine.</em></p><p>
  <em>I like it.  I like it indeed.  Promise you’ll call me nothing but that, from this day forward.</em>
</p><p>And good and upstanding Christian that he was, Filio ever after kept his word.</p>
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